


The Man in the Elevator

by uncreatedlight



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 17:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14720700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncreatedlight/pseuds/uncreatedlight
Summary: In which Arthur struggles with seasonal depression and Eames crashes an AA meeting.





	The Man in the Elevator

Arthur let the pen slip from his hand and fall onto the Moleskin notebook lying open on his desk. He rubbed at his face, raked slender fingers through his already mussed up hair. He looked over what he’d written in the past hour once more, and with a noise of disgust shoved the notebook away from him. There was a Word document open on his computer screen, with barely a paragraph typed—all useless garbage. Often times the physical act of writing, pen to paper, helped push him past writer’s block. But today, it did nothing but add to his frustration.

He looked outside the window of his office, and watched the flurries of snow blowing on the wind. A little pile had built up on his windowsill over the course of the day. It was the first snowfall of the year—cause of excitement for many people in the city. For Arthur, however, it evoked only a sense of dread. Winter would be here soon; quicker than anticipated. And in Chicago, winter didn’t just mean snow and holiday music and family and presents. It also meant darkness. Over the next few weeks the days would grow rapidly shorter, until sunset began falling at 4:30pm. It would remain that way for 6 months.

Arthur had sensed the shift in seasons almost a week ago—before the snowfall—when he slept through his alarm for the first time since February or March. His circadian rhythm was off. Even though he’d signed a lease for an apartment with windows that faced East. Even though he had been taking a high potency Vitamin D supplement for months. His brain still knew the darkness was coming.

The doctor had called it Seasonal Affective Disorder when Arthur ended up in the hospital last December, after the minimal daylight had led him to the bridge outside the Tribune office, staring down at the ice-covered river. He told himself over and over that he wouldn’t have actually jumped. But he’d ended up in the hospital anyways, on suicide watch for an entire weekend. Because what if he had?

The SSRI prescription they’d given him was like a beacon of hope compressed into tiny pill form. He took one every day for several weeks, and at first they seemed to work. He felt better than he had in a long time. He had energy, and spun out a few stories that gained him city-wide recognition. But almost as quickly as they started working, the pills began to make his head foggy. He became confused and forgetful, and everything he wrote was unpublishable. When he began to have trouble spelling, he threw the rest of the pills in the trash—an impulse that cost him dearly. He wasn’t prepared for the withdrawal symptoms, and found himself feeling even worse than before. His writing was suffering immensely, and though he had a place of respect at the Tribune, they couldn’t carry dead weight forever. So he went in search of a cure to fill the void—a lifeline to help him survive the rest of the cold, dark months so that he could get back to his life when the sun returned.

Desperate to feel something other than misery, Arthur took to frequenting clubs around the city. He’d never been the type to have one night stands, but the loneliness was suffocating. The first time was awkward and fumbling, and the sex wasn’t that great, but it gave him relief, however short-lived. And that’s all he really wanted. He wasn’t looking for a genuine connection. Just something to ease the pain.

Eventually he got into a routine. Work during the week, clubbing during the weekend. He never spent the night with the same person twice, and never brought them back to his apartment. He had drunken blowjobs in bathrooms and back alleys, or went home with his chosen partner of the night. A few times he even purchased a hotel room, when he could afford it. But he never brought them home.

And then one night, while he flirted with a guy in a back table at one of the popular bars in Boystown, a new door was opened. The man invited him to a house party that was going on down the street, and against his better judgment, he agreed.

One thing led to another, and Arthur found himself in a position he never in a million years could have foreseen. The house he was invited to turned out to be a well-known hub for opiate users. The owner of the house was a big-time dealer, and threw weekly parties to draw new customers in. At first Arthur resisted, but his escort was persuasive and charming, promising that it was the highest grade stuff, that it would give him the best thrill of his life. It was a temptation too good to pass up.

That night, Arthur felt better than he could ever remember feeling. And predictably, he went back for more. He spent the rest of the winter waiting for the next fix, the next break from reality. His writing improved marginally, enough to keep his job. But his coworkers saw the shift in his personality, and eventually confronted him on his sloppy appearance and the dark circles under his eyes. The senior editor of the Tribune gave him an ultimatum. Get clean, or lose his job and go back to getting pennies for freelance writing.

So he called his mother, and took a few weeks off work to go home and get clean. His parents were heartbroken but encouraging. They paid for the best rehab facility in Boston, and before he knew it he was back on his feet. The craving became bearable. Not gone, certainly, but tolerable.

Spring and summer had gone well. The sun came back, and he felt better, and he didn’t need the drugs anymore, and as a secondary result, didn’t have the compulsive need to sleep with every available man in the city. He started running along the lake on the weekends, chasing natural endorphins instead of the dopamine rush produced by the drug and the sex. Everything was better.

But now winter was returning. Arthur had been considering going home for the next few months. But he needed his job, and he wasn’t sure the Tribune would be willing to give him that much time off. He was a good writer, but even the best writer was expendable. There were plenty of others out there who would jump on the chance to take his position—plenty of others who weren’t addicts who couldn’t handle a bit of snow.

He sighed, and looked back at his computer screen. He’d worked through the rough draft, but the article was pathetic. Drumming his fingertips on the wood of his desk, he glanced at the clock. 4:37. Only 23 minutes left before he could go home, and he hadn’t finished the only assignment he’d been working on since he got here this morning. Usually he could make it through two or three.

“Knock knock”. Arthur jumped. His head snapped up, and he felt his stomach twist. It was Cobb, the senior editor of the Tribune.

Cobb had been a big-time journalist in New York before writing a piece about a Wallstreet executive, spilling some pretty damning accusations that turned out to be based on false information. Cobb stood by his sources even when the guy sued him, and after a nasty trial he was given only three months in a minimum security prison. Basely two weeks after he got out, the Tribune gave him an offer he couldn’t pass up, and he’d been working in Chicago ever since.

Arthur regarded him with a sort of jealous reverence. It was hard to not like the man. He could be surly and impatient, but he was a genius. An excellent writer, and an even better manager. He had ideas nobody else would have dared to pursue, and after his experience in New York, he was meticulous about confirming their sources were correct before going to press. What’s more, he had a reputation for firing people who were bringing down the newspaper, but he had quietly stood by Arthur last Winter when everything happened. He was a good man. Fierce and a bit dangerous, but good. And Arthur _hated_ disappointing him.

Right now, the way Cobb was looking at him as he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, they both knew that’s exactly what he’d done. The expression on his face said “I know you haven’t finished it, but I hope I’m wrong.”

Arthur bit his lip and looked mournfully at the half written document on his computer.

Cobb stepped lightly into the office and closed the door behind him. He perched on the corner of Arthur’s desk, hands folded in his lap. Arthur could smell his cologne. He stared down at his own hands. Ink stained the outside of his right palm, from writing in his notebook.

“What’s going on?” Cobb asked, plainly. There was no malice in his voice. That almost made it worse.

Arthur slumped in his leather chair.

“I don’t—“ Arthur cleared his throat when his voice cracked. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day, except when Ariadne brought him coffee. “I’m not sure,” He finished.

“Bullshit,” Cobb said. Arthur grimaced. He looked up at his boss. Cobb’s brow was arched, and his arms were cross over his chest again. Unlike other members of the management staff at the Tribune, Cobb could convey his meaning with minimal words. It’s what made him such an effective leader. He had a way of getting people to tell him anything, with just a look.

Cobb stood and walked to the window. Arthur swiveled his chair around, watching him. Cobb never wore a suit jacket, opting instead for a kind of old-time look with wool slacks and suspenders. For a moment Arthur could imagine him running a busy printing press in the 1930s.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about me,” Cobb said quietly. Arthur almost didn’t hear him.

“Rumors?” Arthur asked.

Cobb glanced at him over his shoulder, and then back to the window. “Don’t play dumb, Goldstein. You know what I’m talking about.”

He didn’t actually. Arthur racked his brain for a moment, trying to figure out what Cobb was referring to. And then he remembered.

“Your wife.” He said, simply.

Cobb nodded once.

“She was a beautiful woman. But troubled. By the time they diagnosed her, she was too far gone. She was in and out of the hospital for years. After a long stint, she begged me to bring her home. Things were okay for a few days, and then I woke up one morning to see her sitting in the open window. She looked at me, smiled, and then jumped.” He paused, and turned back to Arthur, leaning against the windowsill. The story made it all the more eerie, seeing him framed against the glass, the snow falling behind him.

“Why are you telling me this?” Arthur asked. To his surprise, Cobb laughed.

“The Winter brings out the worst of us,” He said. “The city quiets down, and the snow falls, and in the darkness we’re forced to confront the darkness in our own lives.”

His words sent chills up Arthur’s spine.

“Yeah.”

They shared a moment of understanding, and then Cobb’s demeanor shifted abruptly. He pushed himself away from the window and walked towards the door.

“It’s a slow news week. Go home, get some rest. Come back tomorrow. I want the article, plus drafts for a few new ones done before you leave.”

Arthur frowned.

“But—“

Cobb raised a hand to silence him. “It can wait. We’ll use one of the old ones that never went to print.”

He paused, and nodded. Once Cobb made a decision, there wasn’t much you could do.

The man rubbed the scruff on his jaw, and Arthur was struck suddenly by how tired he looked. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who was struggling with the changing seasons.

Cobb reached forward and laid a hand on his shoulder before opening the door.

“See you tomorrow, Arthur.” He left, shutting the door behind him.

And with that, he was gone, leaving Arthur staring after him, processing the encounter in the dim light of his office.

 

Outside it was freezing. The forecasted temperature for the day had been 50, but his phone told him that with windchill factored in, it was currently 37 degrees. His teeth hurt, and his eyes burned. Inside the snow had looked like harmless flurries, but as he walked up the sidewalk, the flecks of crystalline ice felt like needles flying at his face. Right now he’d like nothing better than to hop on the bus that would take him to his apartment in Wicker Park, where he could crawl into bed and sleep. But he had somewhere else he needed to be.

Arthur adjusted his canvas messenger bag and pulled his thin wool coat closer to his body. He should have brought the fur lined one today. As he walked, he wrapped his fleece scarf around his face and tucked it into the collar of the coat. Walking quickly, he could get to his destination in about 15 minutes. He pushed forward, hands thrust in his pockets, and eyes squinting against the wind. The heat of his breath turned to condensation, making the inside of his scarf moist. He _hated_ the cold.

He rounded the corner and jogged towards the cathedral a few buildings away. It was an old church, done in the gothic style, with ornate stonework and an immense wooden door. He took the steps two at a time and shoved his way in, eager to get out of the cold.

By birth, Arthur was Jewish. He observed the major holidays and ate Kosher when he could, but it was more out of a need for something familiar and stable in his life. And of course to assuage his mother, who constantly berated him whenever they talked on the phone. In practice, he was more of an agnostic theist. He believed, or rather hoped, that there was something greater, but he’d never seen any particularly compelling evidence to confirm what it was. Which made the fact that he was currently wringing out his scarf and tapping his boots on the carpet that covered the tile of a Catholic church all the more unexpected.

The inside of the church was warm and quiet, besides the echo of his boots. He rarely went into the sanctuary, out of a silly sense of respect. He’d been invited to a service a few times, but had never actually gone. Sometimes he heard the monotone singing of the congregation, though, and wistfully contemplated going in.

Running his hand over his hair, Arthur was glad he’d opted not to slick it back today. It would have been a mess after the snow.

He adjusted his bag once more and pushed the button for the elevator to his left. The doors slid open almost immediately, and he stepped into the small compartment. The walls and floor were carpeted, which made him a little claustrophobic, but the feeling passed. He pushed the button for the second floor and waited. The doors began to close—but stopped when somebody shoved their boot inside. The leg and body that belonged to it soon followed, and Arthur pushed himself against the wall, making room for the newcomer. He hated taking the elevator with other people, and frantically considered darting out and taking the stairs instead, but the doors were already closed.

Apparently his neighbor was unaware of his presence, because he started dusting off of his bulky leather coat and tapping the toes of his shoes on the floor, melting snow flying everywhere. Arthur recoiled.

“Hey!” He said.

The stranger stopped mid-brush, and spun around, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh dreadfully sorry, love,” He said, offering an apologetic smile. He tugged off his hat, revealing a mop of messy hair, and shook it off towards the opposite side of the elevator.

“Mess out there, innit?” The stranger continued as he shrugged off his coat and stuffed it under his arm.  As annoyed as he still was, Arthur couldn’t help but admire the man’s physique. His clothes were atrocious, a short sleeved button down shirt and jeans that had seen better days. But it was the intentional sort of distress that only looked good on certain people. He put off an air of carelessness that made Arthur simultaneously repelled, and intrigued.

“It only gets worse from here,” Arthur replied. The man smiled wide, as if delighted that Arthur had spoken to him. He reached across his body with the arm that wasn’t holding his coat, hand outstretched.

“I’m Eames,” He said.

Arthur shook his hand briefly as the elevator doors slid open once more.

“Arthur,” He replied. “This is my floor.”

Eames’ face lit up. “Fancy that! It’s mine too.”

Arthur’s stomach churned with dread.

“Great.” He said, sulkily.

If the man registered his unhappiness, he didn’t show it. He gestured grandly towards the door, and Arthur nodded curtly before disembarking.

“I didn’t know any other groups met here on Wednesdays,” Arthur said hesitantly as they walked, hoping against hope that Eames wasn’t here for the same reason.

The man shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. This is my first time going to confession. Well, in the States anyways.”

Arthur stopped, confused. “Confession?”

Eames grinned and winked playfully.

“AA, darling.”

Arthur felt the color rise in his cheeks as his suspicion was confirmed.

“Oh,” He said. “Well, I guess I can show you to the room. That’s where I’m going too.”

Eames cocked his head, looking somewhere between amused and genuinely surprised. Arthur couldn’t remember feeling more humiliated in his life. He’d been going to this group for months now, and all of them knew his history. With Winter soon to arrive, and his control beginning to slip, he needed the safety of the AA meetings more than ever. And then, today of all days, this badly dressed, tattooed, and unbearably attractive man comes along and ruins everything. Arthur’s hand twitched, and he had the impulse to just push past him and head to the room. He could lock the door. Maybe Eames would take a hint and leave…how incredibly childish that would be.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Eames was saying.

“Guessed, what?” Arthur said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Eames blinked, taken aback.

“Sorry, darling. I meant no offense. You just seem so put together.”

Arthur outright glared at him. He’d been annoyed before, but now he was pissed.

“We’re late,” He said.

Eames nodded and pressed himself to the wall to allow Arthur by. He seemed embarrassed, and Arthur almost apologized. After all, it wasn’t his fault that he was in a foul mood today. But as Arthur walked he couldn’t help but feel Eames staring at him as he passed.

 _Is he checking me out?_ Arthur wondered. In any other situation, he may have been flattered.

Arthur opened the door and walked in. Everyone had their chairs in a circle in the center of the room, the usual setup. 

“Evening Arthur,” Yusuf, the group leader, smiled. “Who’s your friend?”

Arthur turned to look at the man behind him, standing awkwardly at the threshold.

“His name is Eames. He’s not my friend,” Arthur said, knowing how rude he sounded. He joined the group, sitting in the empty chair they’d saved for him. There were a few chairs sitting nearby in case more people arrived. Yusuf grabbed one and the circle shifted to make room.

“Join us, Eames. We won’t bite.” Yusuf said. Eames smiled thankfully and took the seat offered to him.

“We were just about to start sharing,” Yusuf informed them. “Who’d like to start?” He looked around at the group, waiting for someone to volunteer.

Eames raised his hand.

“I’ll have a go at it,” He said.

Yusuf smiled encouragingly.

“Splendid! Just tell us a bit about yourself. How did you come to be here tonight?”

Eames glanced around, and Arthur was surprised to see how vulnerable he suddenly appeared, as if he regretted offering to share. He wondered whether he was too harsh on him in the hallway. But then Eames cleared his throat, and fixed his gaze on Arthur. It was brief, but Arthur couldn’t help but shrink a little under the intensity of the man’s eyes. And then he was addressing everyone, all pretense of embarrassment gone, telling his story with the confidence of someone used to being the center of attention. Arthur found himself wondering what Eames did for a living.

“For the sake of context, I’ll start at the beginning. I grew up in a shady part of London, where the popular entertainment of the day was to pick fights and get sloshed and get tossed out of school a lot. I did my share of all three, until I realized if I wanted to be something other than a drunk like my father, I had to work for it. So I made it through college with passing grades, and got a scholarship to university. I did well at first, pursuing a degree in theater. But if you know anything about actors…well, let’s just say I fell into old habits. Got thrown out of school, went back to the bottle, and did a lot of sulking and fucking around. I got into some bad things that aren’t worth mentioning. Finally I managed to get a job with a small theatre troupe, but it wasn’t enough to cover living expenses. So I dealt cocaine on the side, and everything was fairly perfect for a time. But I started showing up late to rehearsal, and the troupe leader found out and gave me an ultimatum. Get clean, or get out. So I got out. I went full time into dealing, and got an offer to come to the States to work. It seemed too good to pass up. I bought a one way ticket, and here I am.”

The room was quiet as everyone processed Eames’ story.

“And how did you get out of dealing?” Yusuf asked, breaking the silence.

“Well, that’s just it, innit?” Eames smiled darkly. “It’s hard to get out when you’re so deep in. Things got messy…a lot of violence and working with bad people. I left New York to get away from it. I’ve been laying low since then. Normal job, no drugs. It’s been about 6 months now.”

Yusuf nodded.

“Well, we’re glad you’ve joined us. And as a reminder to all of us, what is said here, stays here. Especially when sharing information that can put people in danger.” He gave a stern look to everyone, and there were murmurs of agreement.

Eames smiled. “Thanks, mate.”

Arthur knew he was staring, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Eames. For all he knew, he could be on the run from some sort of king pin drug lord. How could he be so carefree? Eames caught his eye. His lips twitched in apparent amusement, and Arthur looked away.

“Alright, then. Why don’t we go ahead and try an exercise and then do more sharing?” Yusuf said, standing. The rest of them stood and waited for instruction. “Now I know you all hate this one, but we’re going to do a hugging exercise today.” There were a few groans and nervous laughter. Arthur bit down hard on his tongue.

“Yes, yes,” Yusuf said, waving his hands to quiet everyone. “It’s important to practice safe physical contact. We’ll do it for about five minutes, and then switch partners a few times, and come back to the circle. Okay? Okay. Everyone choose a partner, now. I think we have an even number.”

Arthur stood, blood rushing to his cheeks, knowing exactly what was going to happen before anyone even shifted from their seats. He looked around frantically for someone to partner with, but they were all pairing up, and Eames was already walking toward him.

“Fancy being my partner, darling?” He said in a low voice, full of humor.

Arthur clenched his hands into fists and stared at the floor. He felt childish and insecure, and wanted nothing more than to grab his coat and run out of the building.  But Eames had just poured his heart out to the entire group, and Arthur still felt bad for his rudeness in the hall. He nodded silently, forcing himself to make eye contact. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Eames was grinning this devilishly cheeky grin, his full lips pursed and his eyes sparkling. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and Arthur resisted the growing urge to run. There was barely six inches separating them. Eames smelled amazing.

“Alright, 5 minutes starting….now!” Yusuf called to everyone, and one by one the couples stepped awkwardly towards eachothers’ embrace.

It took a moment for Arthur to realize that Eames was waiting for him to initiate. He sucked in a quick breath, feeling very much like he might start hyperventilating at any moment. It was absolutely ridiculous how uncomfortable this situation made him. He’d been more than physical with dozens of men in his lifetime, and yet he couldn’t even bring himself to _hug_ this one.

“You alright, darling…?” Eames asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, clenched his jaw, and bolted. He picked up his coat and scarf from his chair, and exited the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. Rather than wait for the elevator, Arthur took the stairs, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to get away. He was still yanking on his coat as he pushed open the doors to the church and made his way down the snow covered steps to the sidewalk. If he walked quickly, he could make it to the next bus.

“Hey!” A voice called behind him. “Arthur, wait!”

He knew who it was, and forever after this moment, Arthur would never be certain why exactly he stopped in his tracks. But he did. He turned, and waited as Eames ran toward him.

As he came closer, Arthur realized that Eames had left his coat behind. He was standing in 30 degree weather in just a shirt and jeans.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” Eames said. “I didn’t mean to run you off. That was your place, and I invaded it, and made you uncomfortable. You don’t have to see me again…I’ll find a different group. I just wanted to apologize. I’m a bloody horrible person, and I made some assumptions that appear to be incorrect.”

Arthur narrowed his brows, confused.

“What assumptions?”

Eames searched his face, looking embarrassed.

“Well…I thought…” He struggled.

“ _What?_ ” Arthur snapped, growing angry.

“I thought you were gay,” Eames said at last, looking sheepish.

“I am,” Arthur said simply.

The shift in Eames’ expression was comical; Arthur actually laughed.

“I’m sorry…I hate to sound like an egotistical bastard, but I’m used to people responding to me a bit more positively when I flirt with them.”

“You’re right,” Arthur replied. “You do sound egotistical.” He hesitated, taking in Eames’ helpless confusion. “You don’t get turned down very often, do you?” He asked.

Eames shrugged.

“Pretty much never, actually.”

Out here in the cold, away from the too-quiet church, Arthur felt less anxious. Watching Eames shiver on the sidewalk, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets and his nose turning red, he felt his previous panic ebbing.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re used to, but picking up guys at an AA meeting is kind of sleazy, don’t you think?”

Eames eyes widened.

“God when you say it like that I sound like some sort of predatory slag.”

Arthur adjusted his bag and flipped up the collar of his coat to try and preserve warmth. It had to be below freezing by this point.

“Yeah, well. No harm done, I suppose.”

Eames shivered and rubbed his hands together to warm them.

“It’s bloody cold here,” He said. “Don’t know how you handle it.”

“With proper winter clothing, to start,” Arthur teased. Eames glared at him.

“Right, well if some doe-eyed handsome man hadn’t dashed out on me, I may have had time to grab my coat and hat.”

Arthur smiled apologetically.

“Sorry. It’s been a bad day.”

“And I’ve made it worse,” Eames said. “I’m truly sorry, love. Like I said, I’ll find a different group to go to.”

Arthur frowned. Now that the embarrassment had passed, and they’d gotten everything out in the open, he felt no anger towards Eames.

“You don’t have to,” He said. “It would be silly of me to chase you off.”

Eames shook his head fervently.

“No I…bloody hell it’s cold…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know what it’s like, yeah? You need your space.”

Arthur hesitated. Less than an hour ago Eames was an unwelcome intruder. Now he was apologizing, promising to go leave well enough alone and let Arthur be—which should be exactly what he _wanted._ But watching him stumble over his words, shivering with the cold he willingly rushed into for the sole purpose of apologizing to Arthur, when really Arthur was the only one at fault…Arthur felt a rush of sympathy. He couldn’t be angry. He was uptight, and miserable, but he wasn’t _inhuman_.

Blame it on the changing seasons, his shifting state of mind. Old habits and all that. Whatever. Stepping forward, he pressed his lips to Eames’ full mouth, relishing the familiar warmth of being this close to another person after so long. Eames gasped, and when Arthur backed away, he was satisfied by his look of astonishment. There. Easier than words of forgiveness Eames would refuse to believe.

“What was that?” Eames asked.

“A kiss,” Arthur replied. “To shut you up,” He added, by way of explaining. It was mostly true, though he could feel his pulse beginning to race, his cheeks warm despite the cold. Prior irritation or no, he found himself pre-occupied by Eames’ mouth.

“Right, well. If that’s how it is.” Eames grabbed the lapel of Arthur’s coat and kissed him again. This one wasn’t playful or teasing as Arthur’s had been. It was _scorching_. Once he got past his initial shock, Arthur carded his hands through Eames’ messy hair and sighed into his mouth, as if this was exactly what he’d wanted from the beginning, from the moment Eames shoved his way into the elevator and started tossing snow everywhere. And perhaps it was.

Eames pulled him closer, seeking purchase. He was insistent, but held back, almost polite, as if he were asking permission. Arthur welcomed him, and they stood there, breath mingling as it rose in the cold air like smoke.


End file.
